A Crack in Everything Page 16

  The first number landed me a voice mail, the second a hang-up. I got lucky with the third, a lonely lady who didn’t know Charles L. Renfrow, but was eager to denounce her son-in-law. I extricated myself and pressed in the next number. My luck held. Mary Franklyn’s daughter told me her mother summered on Isleboro and hadn’t voted in years. The fifth person on my list, Richard Marwick, never signed anything except child support checks. I didn’t bother calling the sixth. No need to lacerate myself with any more luck. Chaz had thrown darts at a Telford census and forged the signatures.

  I went back to the booth and fussed inside my bag for a very long time before I allowed myself to find my cache of aspirin. Two tablets and a slug of wine didn’t do a thing for the pain in my head or the ache in my stomach. “The signatures are fakes,” I said. “Chaz Renfrow never intended to run for mayor of anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Susan. You couldn’t have known.”

  “You knew.”

  “I suspected. Probably because I didn’t like the man. Maybe I was jealous of him.”

  “You knew because you’re trained to know, and you did your job.”

  “My job is to suspect. Yours isn’t. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

  The music was loud, but I heard every kind, mortifying word. “Hard on myself? How about smug and self-satisfied? I was sure Chaz had been murdered before five on Friday because he hadn’t filed his phony signatures. I told you your business.”

  While I talked, Michael built a wobbly tower of shells, which clattered down on his plate. “Your method wasn’t wrong,” he said, stacking them again. “We use the same sort of reasoning all the time. In this case it was even simpler. We now know Renfrow was alive at noon on Saturday because he took a call from one of his scientists, and we’ve got the phone records. It’s the other end we haven’t pinpointed. He probably wasn’t alive after midnight, and that’s as close as we’ve managed to get, so far.”

  The shells toppled again, and this time he left them. “You’re not a bad detective.”

  “I just don’t get it. Why would Chaz pretend to be a candidate?”

  “He wanted to get close to you.”

  “But why?” Chaz had told me so many little lies, they stacked up like mussel shells. But this lie was huge; it cut to the quick, and I’d been forewarned. My gut had spoken clearly. Why hadn’t I listened?

  “You’re right about his forging my name on the contract.” I was ready to concede everything now. “He planned to use the contract like Johanna did, to take back his retainer once he no longer needed my services, whatever they were.” I tapped my chest. “Alice down the rabbit hole.”

  The music stopped, and applause came, a patter like rain. The waitress presented our check the old-fashioned way, at Michael’s elbow. I didn’t bother to protest. I let him pay. I even finished his wine.

  Sax and keyboard slid into a plaintive duet. Michael left his seat and pushed in next to me, giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Let’s leave, Susie,” he said softly in my ear. “We’ll stop off at the morgue, then we’ll go home, and I’ll let you rub my back and bring me a beer. We’ll watch ESPN, and I’ll explain it to you.”

  Who says men can’t nurture?

  ***

  “What’s so important it can’t wait till Monday?” Johanna said when Michael served the warrant. “A commonplace lab tool? They’re fungible, you know.” She refused to ride with us in Michael’s car, preferring to risk a breakdown in Chaz’s antique Sonnet.

  NGT loomed like a mausoleum illuminated by stalks of clinical light, and as we pulled into a visitor’s slot, I found myself shrinking against my seat, cowed by the nighttime aura of the place. Torie had died in this parking lot, and all my powers of avoidance couldn’t keep the image of her murdered body at bay.

  Getting skittish will damage your credibility, I warned myself, and exited the car with such verve I beat Michael to the entrance. Johanna unlocked the double glass doors and hurried inside, keeping well ahead of us.

  Inside Lab 45, I stared at the shelf I’d searched yesterday. “It was there,” I told Michael. “I cut myself pulling it out.”

  “Didn’t you cut yourself on the hose?” Johanna had recovered her amused reserve. She was packaged in jeans tonight. They made her look thin and voluptuous, like one of those illusionary drawings that shifts in the light.

  “I hid it behind the vinaigrette bottles,” I said, ignoring her.

  “Vinaigrette bottles? Are you familiar with lab equipment, Susan?” Johanna spoke to me, but smiled at Michael.

  “I know what I saw.” Last night at the morgue, the assistant medical examiner had shown me an old style microtome blade on a wooden handle, the very model of the “pasta scraper” I’d cut my finger on. Sunday evening, after Johanna refused to permit a search, Michael got his warrant, and now here we all were.

  Johanna pushed her glasses to the top of her head, a way to deflect her anger, I knew. “You look tired, Susan. Is your finger better?”

  “Yep,” I said, full of new respect for swamp Yankees and their taciturn ways. I positioned myself directly in front of her. “Did you take the blade away?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  She was answering questions with questions, which made me want to slap her. “Lieutenant Benedict,” she said, edging away from me. “Was Torie killed with a microtome blade?”

  “Very likely,” I answered for him. “Maybe right here in this lab.”

  “The press said she was killed in her condo.”

  “She was attacked there. But she died in her car.” My voice notched up. “Fifty feet from your office.”

  Johanna shook her head in mock dismay. “You’re upset with me, Susan. I hope it’s not because you had to give back the money.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the money. You knew I found a blade here yesterday.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a trowel? Or a butter knife?”

  Her sarcasm passing right over me, I went to the sink. “What about the hose? Why is the connector stripped?” I imagined Torie’s killer washing her blood down the drain, and then tearing the hose off the faucet in his hurry to run water over his own bloody fingerprints.

  “Lab 45 is a repository for junk.” Johanna was sympathetic, but growing a little impatient with my shenanigans. “I have never seen a microtome blade in here. You are a befuddled young woman. You should go home and go to bed”

  “Keep your advice. I want the truth.” I invaded her space, sticking my face in her well-powdered face. Damn if there wasn’t a zit on her chin.

  “Where is the blade?” I spoke slowly, through my teeth. “Did you find my blood on the shelf and figure it out?” I remembered the monitors, Torie’s secret video. “There’s a hidden camera in here. You saw me find it.”

  She walked over to Michael. “I want her out of here.”

  “When she’s ready,” he said.

  Voices and clatter came from the hall, and two people in green coveralls walked in trundling toolboxes and suitcases.

  “Susan,” Michael said, “come over and meet applied science.”

  The woman, Molly, was blond and stocky. Roger was narrow-flanked but chesty, and diffident, like a greyhound.

  “We’ll leave you to it,” Michael said. “I’ll want the drain pulled.” He motioned me and Johanna into the corridor. “We’ll be here for hours yet,” he told her. “Why don’t you go home? We’ll reset the alarm when we leave.” He turned to me, slouching in the doorway. “Susan, you go too. Take my car. I’ll hitch a ride.”

  There was no fight left in me, only a sinking feeling that I had made a mistake.

  ***

  The old emptiness rushed at me, so familiar I almost embraced it. I went to bed and buried my face in Michael’s pillow. When I woke again, he was next to me. Streetli
ght slanted across his arm and the sheets.

  “Are you awake?” I whispered, and when he didn’t answer, I nudged him. “Michael. Are you awake?”

  He groaned. “What time is it?”

  “Three o’clock. What happened? Did you find the blade?”

  He crushed a pillow under his ear and closed his eyes. “No.”

  “Any hidden cameras?”

  “No. Let me sleep.” The blanket slipped, and he pulled it over his shoulder.

  “What about the drains?”

  “Took ’em away.”

  “Think they’ll find Torie’s blood?”

  “Dammit, Susan!” He reached across me and turned on the lamp. His eyelids were puffy, his mouth framed with heavy lines.

  “Michael, all I know is the blade was there the night Torie died and it was there Saturday afternoon.”

  “It’s gone now.”

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Well, Johanna must have taken it. Maybe she’s covering up for her boyfriend Bart. Or her son. Herself, even. She’s the one who benefits from Chaz’s death, not Roddie Baird. And she was jealous of Torie.”

  I got up and began opening drawers, sorting through my new clothes.

  “What are you doing? Come back to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep.” Sleep was for wusses. “I’m going to mull over Roddie’s prospects.”

  I eased my wounded self into a utilitarian bra, stepped into calf-length slacks and pulled on a top, the dusty rose with the pinwale ribbing. “He’s already lost his campaign manager. If you don’t leave him alone, he’ll lose the election.”

  The quiet room grew quieter. Electricity buzzed through the bedside clock, unless it was the blood in my ears. I couldn’t believe I had uttered those words, and worse, that I meant them.

  Michael didn’t speak until I turned and faced him. Then he said: “Are you asking me to let your client off the hook?”

  A floorboard creaked, the sound of me backing off. “I like Roddie. I’m a loyal little thing and I can’t help believing he’s innocent. That’s all I was trying to say.”

  “Then you’d better get out of the way and let me prove it.”

  I drifted uncertainly toward the door than walked back and turned out the light. “I’m going for a drive.” I bent and kissed the scar on his cheekbone. “Try and get some sleep.”

  Michael needed sleep. For me, sleep was too much like death.

  ***

  A few stars shone faintly in a patch of sky between the brownstones. I put Beauford’s business card away and studied the third floor window, side and rear, where his apartment ought to be. A fire escape zigzagged down.

  Before coming here, I’d mea culpa’d around town, driving up and down the Charles River, opalescent ink at this hour. Because of me, Michael had stuck out his neck on Lab 45 and found nothing. I wanted to redeem myself in his eyes, shine a disinfecting light on NGT and Johanna. While I drove, I’d devised a simple plan: Michael could use Torie’s video, and Beauford wouldn’t mind if I fetched it. He owed me two or three, but I’d settle for just this one.

  I walked around to the entrance and scanned the tenants’ directory. Kling, said the superintendent’s name card. After three or four jabs on the buzzer, a thick voice came through the intercom. No words, just a grunt.

  “Mr. Kling?”

  “Mrs. Kling.”

  “Oh.” This would be harder with a woman. “Sorry to wake you, but I’m a friend of Beauford Smith. He said the superintendent would let me—”

  “Who?”

  “Beauford Smith.”

  “You. Who’re you?”

  “Dina Carpenter. My bus just got in from Buffalo. Beauford said I could stay at his place while he was away.”

  “He didn’t say nothin’ to me.”

  “Just till he gets back from Rome.” That information ought to establish my bona fides. “I know it’s late, and I’d have gone to a hotel for tonight, but I lost my wallet, all my money, credit cards.” In case she asked for ID. I didn’t know Beauford all that well. Even a close friend might not like me poking through his things.

  “Wait a minute.”

  She came up, a small woman in spite of her big voice, and looked me over. The weary traveler. My bulging hobo bag clinched it. Grumbling, she led me to Beauford’s third floor pad. “Girls in and out of here, all hours. I told him…oh, who cares. Pays his rent on time.”

  I moved into the kitchenette, a tiled area at one end of the living room. “I won’t need a key,” I told her, as if she’d made a kind offer. “Beau keeps a spare in his freezer.”

  She gave me a doubting look, and I knew I had overdone it.

  “Where’s he staying in Rome?” she asked, one pop quiz I was prepared for.

  “Palazzo Spirito. Near the Vatican.” I was ad-libbing the part about the Vatican, but her jaw relaxed.

  “That’s right. Slipped my mind.” She waited, clutching her bony elbows, while I got my bearings. The bedroom and bathroom were off a hall behind the kitchenette. There was one closet.

  I hung my bag on a hook. “Well, I’m pooped.”

  She left, but I didn’t hear her step down the hall. Trying not to breathe, I put my ear to the door. Behind me, water plinked into the sink. The doorknob turned slowly, stopped, and finally, I heard footsteps receding.

  I slid on the chain and proceeded to tear Beauford’s place apart, starting with his tiny bedroom, which indeed opened onto fire stairs, though not the ones I had noticed from the street. Luckily, Beau had almost no furniture. A small chest took up most of one wall, and drawer by drawer, I went through it: socks, underwear, laundry-folded shirts. No video. I looked under the bed and lifted the mattress. Nothing. I worked my way painstakingly through his closet, checking every suit and jacket. I shook out sweaters. Turned his shoes on end and tapped them on the floor.

  Next I did the bathroom, dumping out his hamper, running my hand behind toilet tank and sink, both slimy with condensation. Nothing there, or in the scuzzy bathtub.

  I moved into the living room. There was a lithium battery and a printer on top of a window table, but no drawers, nothing inside the printer but an ink cartridge. Quickly, holding my nose, I went through a hockey duffle, which Beauford had dropped, or maybe stored, in front of the sofa. Nothing but two sets of armor, and a stench that wouldn’t quit.

  The sofa cushions didn’t have zippers. I put them on the floor and wedged my hand between the frame and the springs. Beauford’s sofa was saggier than mine, and he was a successful consultant, or had been, until he met Chaz.

  A knock rattled the door chain, sending my heart on a tear up my throat.

  “Hey,” Mrs. Kling called.

  I threw the cushions helter skelter back on the frame and tiptoed into the bedroom.

  She pounded again.

  I opened and closed the bedroom door and yawned like a noisy cat. “Who’s there?”

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  I yawned again, my face close to the door. “Deirdre Carpenter.”

  “Thought you said Dina.”

  “Deirdre. I said Deirdre.” By now, I’d lost track of my lies.

  Without another word, she left, and in the restored quiet my alertness turned to fear. Dawn was beginning to sheer through a smudged window over the sofa. It was time to finish the job and get the hell out of here. Just one more place to search. I’d left the skeevy kitchenette for last. Suddenly thirsty, I went to the sink. Rather than use one of Beau’s scurvy cups, I stuck my face under the faucet and let the water flow directly into my mouth.

  Thus refreshed, I opened the cabinet and shrieked at a party of cockroaches line-dancing under a drainpipe. They didn’t miss a beat in the sudden light. I had to scatter them with my sandal. My hands popping a
sweat, I forced myself to explore cupboards, the oven, utensil drawers, refrigerator, and came up with the same nothing I’d already found.

  Back in the living room, I checked my watch. Twenty minutes had passed since Mrs. Kling’s knock. I could hear birds twitter. Traffic began to hum. Beauford had told me the video was in his apartment. Every cushion, mattress and drawer in the place had been carefully ransacked by me. I looked at the hockey bag again. Maybe I’d explored it too quickly, it smelled so bad. What’s the difference between a dig through Beau’s hockey bag and a dumpster dive? I giggled nervously under my breath.

  That’s when I heard them pounding up the stairs.

  “She’s in there.” A key slid into a lock. “Beauford never heard of her.”

  Just as the door smashed the chain, I scooped up the hockey duffle and raced for the bedroom, ripping my hobo bag off the hook as I passed. The bedroom window stuck, but I put my shoulder into it and managed to drag myself and my gear over the sill.

  The fire stairs groaned under my weight. By the time a voice started yelling, I’d hit the ground running. The hockey duffle thumped along the sidewalk beside me. I didn’t look back, not even to see if it was cops Mrs. Kling had sicced on me.

  I jumped into my Beemer and screeched toward Beacon Street. Who’d have thought Mrs. Kling would spend all that money calling Beauford in Rome and that she’d actually reach him?

  Bad luck. But the duffle was snug on the back seat, and I could search it at my leisure. I started for home, then swerved for Commonwealth instead. Michael was tired, and a little morose. The sight of Beauford’s hockey duffle might distress him. Better to let him sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Delia’s Eyes

  I parked behind Lauren Baird’s Mazda, stowed Beau’s hockey gear in the trunk, and set my wristwatch for six-thirty, a not-too-unreasonable time for a conference with my candidate. Settling down on the back seat, I contorted myself into a space twelve inches shorter than my legs. Conditions were perfect for sleep: I was uncomfortable and not in my bed, and after a last shudder over my narrow escape, I knew nothing more until a relentless tweep tweep tweep wiped out a dream.